


We Stumble, But We Never Fall

by whispered_story



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Boys In Love, First Time, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, John Dies, Light Angst, M/M, Pre-Series, Stanford Era, au elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 21:57:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14434923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whispered_story/pseuds/whispered_story
Summary: Sam is away at Stanford when John dies. Dean shows up at his apartment in Palo Alto, messed up and hurting, and in the wake of what happened, their relationship slowly grows into something more.





	We Stumble, But We Never Fall

**Author's Note:**

> betaed by [dancing_adrift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancing_Adrift/pseuds/Dancing_Adrift) ♥

Sam's just finishing up a reading assignment for one of his classes when the doorbell rings. 

He huffs, getting up from his bed, and grabs his gun from the top drawer of his nightstand just in case. He doubts he'll actually need it; there are a lot of students living in the building, since it's not too far from campus and the rent is cheap, and it wouldn't be the first time one of them came home drunk and couldn't find the right apartment anymore. Still, it's almost midnight and Sam knows it's better to be safe than sorry.

He slides the gun down the back of his jeans as he makes his way out of his bedroom and through the small living-room/kitchen area to the front door. He pulls it open, body tense and ready to either fight or tell some drunk idiot to fuck off.

It's Dean.

For a moment, Sam freezes— _Dean_. Dean is there, in Palo Alto, like Sam has secretly been hoping, praying for for months and months—and then it's like everything comes crashing down on him. 

Dean is pale, eyes puffy and glassy, and his gray shirt is splattered with dark red blood. 

"Jesus Christ, Dean," Sam breathes, and grabs him. He pulls Dean inside, trying to be careful, and scans his body for injuries as he kicks the door closed with his foot.

"What happened? Are you hurt?" he asks, feeling a flutter of panic in his chest.

Dean looks at him, but his eyes are unfocused. "It's not my blood," he says, his voice raw and pained. 

"Dean?" Sam prompts gently. He watches Dean, the way his expression slips, crumbles.

"Sammy," Dean whispers, and he sounds so broken, so hurt, and Sam knows. He _knows_ and his stomach twists, turns. "Sammy. I… Dad…"

He doesn't need to say anything else. Sam's not sure he even wants to hear the words aloud. He feels like a rug's been pulled out from under him, his chest constricting with sudden, piercing pain. 

Sam is shaking, feeling unsteady. He wraps his hand around Dean's arm, needing the contact and something to hold on to, to steady himself. Dean's skin is warm, smooth, and it makes breathing just a little easier. This close, Sam can smell the burning scent of fire and he tries not to think about where it came from, tries not to picture it.

Dean, finally, looks up at him, his eyes wet and so, so pained. "I'm sorry," he mumbles. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I tried. I swear I tried."

Sam nods, the movement feeling odd, like his head is just wobbling up and down uncoordinatedly. His hand slides down Dean's arm, to his wrist, and he squeezes it. He's probably going to leave bruises and focuses on that, on the image of his fingers leaving purple smudges on Dean's skin.  

Dean doesn't pull away. Instead he shuffles closer and all but collapses into Sam. His breathing is ragged, warm puffs of air that hit Sam's neck, and Sam brings his free arm up, wrapping it around Dean's shoulders and pulling him in.

"I'm sorry," Dean whispers again, words barely audible, and Sam shushes him. Relief mixes with sadness and pain inside him, the conflicting emotions making his head spin. Dean is there. He's warm and solid and alive.

Dean is _alive_ and guilt gnaws at Sam's stomach for how glad he is about that. Glad that it's Dean he's holding in his arms right now, not their dad. That the blood he can smell now, dried and gross, is not Dean's.

                            *

When he was a toddler, Sam used to think that there was nothing Dean couldn't do, that whatever problem there was and whatever bothered Sam, Dean would always find a way to fix things. He patched up Sam's scraped knees, cheered him up when he was crying, and mended his broken toys. Sam knows better now, but part of him still believes that Dean has the ability to makes things right for him when Sam needs him.

Now, though, Dean is still pale and he looks like he's ready to crash. They stand in the hallway of Sam's apartment for what feels like forever, silence stretching between them, before Sam tugs at Dean's arm.

"Come on," he murmurs and leads Dean into his bedroom.

"You should shower," he says softly once they're inside, and Dean nods, looking down at his own hands. There are specks of blood on them, dried and flaking off, and Sam swallows the bile rising in his throat.

"The bathroom is through here," he continues and goes to open the door across the room. "It connects to my roommate's bedroom as well, but he's not home. Just take your time. Towels are under the sink and you can use my shampoo and stuff."

"Thanks, Sammy," Dean says, voice quiet, and he brushes past Sam into the bathroom.

"Holler if you need anything," Sam adds. He waits until Dean has closed the door and he hears the shower being turned on before he steps back.

On the other side of the room, he sinks down on his bed. His textbook and notebook are still lying open on the sheets, pen and marker scattered. Sam's throat feels too tight. His eyes are burning and he wipes them furiously, smearing tears. Hanging his head, Sam lets out a choked sob and buries his face in his hands.

By the time the bathroom door creaks open, Sam's calmed down a little. His eyes are probably  red, though, his breathing labored.

"I need clothes," Dean says, and his voice is still so damn quiet, so broken. He's standing in the doorway, a towel slung around his waist, hair dripping. He looks nothing like the Dean Sam remembers, his cocky, larger than life brother that never wavered, never broke. 

_Because dad is dead_ , Sam thinks and then, _god, he's really dead. Dead._

Sam quickly gets up and gets Dean a pair of boxer-briefs and a t-shirt, his hands shaking. He averts his eyes as Dean gets dressed in front of him.

"You need food?" he finally asks, just to fill the silence between them. "Something to drink?"

"I'm not really hungry."

Sam exhales, nods. "I'll get us some water. You… you're probably tired, Dean. When's the last time you slept?"

Dean shrugs. "Been a while," he admits. "I'll take the couch. If it's okay if I crash here for the night. You got a spare blanket or something?"

"Don't be stupid," Sam says and shakes his head. "Go to bed. I'll be right back, okay?"

He doesn't wait for a reply, not wanting to give Dean the chance to argue with him. There's no way they're sleeping in separate rooms tonight; the thought alone makes Sam's throat tighten. 

He gets two bottles of water from the fridge, the throw from the couch, and goes back to his bedroom. Sam's school things are neatly stacked on the nightstand and Dean is lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling. 

Sam turns off the ceiling light so it's just the bedside lamp that's still on and puts one of the bottles down by the bed before handing Dean the other.

"Drink," he orders, and then undresses. It feels good to keep his hands busy, giving himself something to focus on. To distract himself with.

Dean is done with the entire bottle by the time Sam slides under the sheets.

"Did you need to study? For a test or something? Exams?" Dean asks, and Sam knows that what Dean really wants to know if he's bothering Sam, like he could possibly impose. 

"No. Just some reading," he says, and Dean nods. 

"You can, you know." He gestures at the lamp, or maybe the textbook he's put there.

"Dean," Sam says warningly, and it's _don't be stupid_ and _there's no way I could read right now_ and _dad is gone, Dean_ all rolled up in one. He switches the lamp off, plunging them into sudden darkness, and shifts to get more comfortable. Blindly, he reaches out and feels around until his hand finds Dean's arm. He squeezes it once and then rubs his thumb in small circles over the warm skin.

Dean sighs.

"What happened?" Sam finally asks quietly, the question feeling safer to ask in the darkness, where they can't see each other. Like it makes it less terrible, less real.

Dean is silent for a moment. "Ghost," he finally says, voice thick and choked. "Fuck, Sammy, it was just a freaking _ghost_. A woman… the husband kept a box with things after she passed away, jewelry and stuff. A strand of her hair, so burning her bones did jack shit. Just pissed her off even more. She was hurling stuff around while we searched the attic for the stupid box and dad was trying to distract her."

Sam runs his hand up and down Dean's arm comfortingly, his own eyes burning with tears.

"I wasn't fast enough," Dean mumbles. "I… I tried. There were all these things, so many boxes, and she was hurling all kinds of shit at Dad. This splintered piece of wood… Sammy, I wasn't fast enough. He was barely conscious by the time I found the hair and burned it, and there was so much blood."

Dean lets out a choked sob, and Sam takes a ragged breath, shuffling closer so he can pull Dean in. Hot wet tears are sliding down his own face, soaking the pillow, and Sam shakes his head, mouth brushing against Dean's forehead now. "It's not your fault. Don't do that to yourself, Dean."

"If I'd been faster—"

"No," Sam interrupts. "No. You did everything you could. It _wasn't_ your fault."

"I'm sorry," Dean says anyway, and Sam really starts crying then. For himself, for John, for Dean.

 

                        *

Sam's eyes feel gritty and puffy when he wakes up the next morning and his whole body aches, a heaviness weighing him down. He rolls onto his side with a sigh and finds Dean lying on the other side of the bed, awake. He's looking at Sam, face drawn and bags under his eyes.

"Did you sleep?" Sam asks. He reaches out, but hesitates before his hand touches Dean's skin. Fuck it, he thinks. Dean is his brother, his only family now that John is gone, and Sam is tired of keeping away, of not showing feelings. They used to be like this all the time—sharing beds, Sam falling asleep on Dean in the back of the car on long rides, Dean letting his hand brush over Sam's shoulder, his hair. It stopped suddenly, one day, but Sam never questioned it, was old enough to know their dad probably said something to Dean about it by then. 

But John is gone now and Sam feels like he's going to go out of his mind if he doesn't keep touching Dean, feeling his warm skin under his palms, reassuring him that he's there. 

Sam lets his thumb brush under Dean's right eye before settling it on Dean's neck.

"A little," Dean answers. 

Sam nods, accepting the answer even if it doesn't make him happy. Dean looks exhausted and Sam can only imagine what the last couple of days must have been like for him. "I'll go make us some breakfast in a minute," he offers.

"Not really hungry," Dean mumbles.

Sam shrugs. "Well, tough shit."

Dean scowls, but doesn't protest any further and he doesn't make a move to pull away from Sam's touch. Eventually, Sam withdraws his hand and sits up, throwing the blanket aside.

"Food," he declares, and gets up. Dean stays where he is, blankets pulled up to his shoulders, and Sam is quite happy with that decision. Even if he won't go back to sleep, Dean looks like he needs all the rest he can get. 

Sam pulls on a pair of sweatpants and leaves the door to the bedroom half open as he leaves. 

There's a pancake mix in the pantry, and Sam switches on the coffee maker before mixing the batter. He throws in some blueberries he finds in the fridge that still look eatable—one of the few healthy things he knows Dean will eat without complaint.

As he works, Sam feels oddly domestic. He's made breakfast for himself countless times, but now he's making it for himself and someone else, even if that someone is Dean. It's nice. Or as nice as it can be, given the reason Dean is there to begin with, but Sam is trying his hardest not to think about that. It feels unreal, still.

Ever since Sam left for college, every incoming call has made him flinch, worried someone would be calling him with horrible news about John or Dean, or both. Yet part of him had never really thought something bad might happen to them. They had always found a way to come out on top, to beat whatever monster they were facing. Until now.

Sam bites down on his bottom lip to fight the tears welling up in his eyes again and focuses on the task at hand. Breakfast and Dean, that's all that matters for now.

                            *

"Breakfast in bed for you," Sam says when he returns to the bedroom with coffee and food, but his voice sounds flat.

Dean gives him a small smile. "Thanks, Sammy."

Sam nods, puts the mugs on the bedside table and the plate stacked with pancakes and two forks on the bedsheets before settling on the bed next to Dean. He hands Dean a fork, then one of the steaming mugs. They dig in silently, and Sam makes sure Dean has eaten his fill before he clears his throat.

"So," he starts and rubs his neck nervously. "There's probably things we need to do, right?"

"I burned the body," Dean says. He's looking down at the bedsheets, shoulders slumped. "God, I'm an asshole."

"Dean."

"Didn't even give you the chance to be there for the funeral," Dean continues, shaking his head. 

"It's not like it was a normal funeral, Dean."

"I should have called you. I just didn't want to tell you over the phone, Sammy. And the… the body. I had to do something with it, you know?" Dean explains desperately. Sam shifts closer and places his hand on Dean's back. "Couldn't leave it behind and come here. And someone was going to find the mess we made at the house, see the blood. I didn't want to wait around in town with a dead body and—"  
"Dean," Sam interrupts. "Stop. It's okay. I get it. You did what you had to do, and Dad would have approved."  
Dean turns to look at him. "I'm sorry, Sam."

"Me too," Sam says and leans forward, letting his forehead connect with Dean's. "For not being there with you. Sorry you had to go through all that on your own."

Dean brings his hands up, cupping Sam's neck. "I'm glad I'm here now," he admits, and it's strange to hear that, to have Dean be so open, but it feels so good. 

"Me too," Sam admits, and Dean sighs softly. 

For a moment, Sam thinks Dean is going to kiss him, or he will kiss Dean. There's just an inch or so between their mouths and it would be easy to lean in. It's fucked up, and yet the longing isn't entirely new for Sam. 

The moment is over in a second. Dean turns his head, nose brushing Sam's cheek as he draws him in, hugs him close. 

"He loved you, Sammy. I know you guys had your issues, but you gotta know that he did. And he was proud of you; it just scared the hell out of him, you being away from us."

Sam nods against Dean's shoulder, even though he isn't quite sure how true that is. His and John's relationship had been complicated for a long time, becoming more and more screwed up over the last couple of years Sam spent with them. And god, how he regrets that now, how he wishes things could have been different. 

Sam screws his eyes shut and hugs Dean tighter.

                            *

They get Dean's things from the Impala which is parked outside the building. 

It's odd, but Sam is almost startled by the familiar sight, by the feelings of _home_ and _right_ that rush through him. The gleaming, black metal, the squeak of the doors opening, even the way it smells inside as Sam rummages around the dashboard for Dean's cell, is the same.

"I really don't mind getting a motel room close by, Sammy," Dean says as he shoulders his duffel bag. It's a discussion they already had earlier, after breakfast, and Sam just gives Dean a hard look.

"Your roommate…"

"Isn't here right now. And his girlfriend lived with us for almost three months," Sam stresses. 

Dean presses his lips together, but nods. 

"I want you to stay here, Dean," Sam adds, going for honesty. "I don't want you across town. I just… please?"

"All right, Sammy. Geez, no need to beg," Dean grumbles, but he smiles a little. 

Back upstairs, Dean puts his bag in Sam's bedroom and Sam pointedly unzips it and pulls out Dean's bag of toiletries, putting it in the bathroom next to the sink.

"I've been thinking," Sam says as he emerges again. "Maybe we should call Bobby."

"Bobby?" Dean repeats.

"I know things between him and dad were kinda tense, but he should know, right?" Sam suggests. "And maybe he can go get dad's car, store it for us."

"We can do that."

Sam sighs. "Dean, I have exams coming up soon. And you—well, we could need some help, anyway. I'm sure he wouldn't mind."

Dean leans against Sam's desk, scuffing his foot against the ground. "Fine."

"I can call him," Sam offers, and Dean shakes his head. 

"I was the one who was there; it should be me," Dean says. Sam nods reluctantly. 

He still has Dean's cell phone in the pocket of his jeans and he pulls it out, holding it out to Dean. "You wanna do it now?"

"Better to just get it over with, right?" Dean says with a lightness that's so fake it hurts Sam's heart. Dean takes the cell and sits down on the bed, visibly steeling himself for the call he's about to make.  
Sam sits down next to him and, without letting himself think about it, curls up against Dean. He rests his cheek on Dean's shoulder, slides his arm around his waist and pulls his knees up.

To his surprise, Dean doesn't comment on it. He brings his cell up to his ear, on the side Sam isn't occupying.

"Hey Bobby," he says after a while, voice low and rough. Sam can hear Bobby answer, can hear the rumble of his voice even though he can't make out the words.

It's a painful conversation to listen to. Dean is trying hard to hold it together, recounting what happened in an almost lifeless voice, but his hands are trembling and a few times he has to stop, has to breathe deeply.  

Eventually, when Sam can tell it's getting too much for Dean, he gently pries the phone out of his hand and brings it to his own ear. "Hey Bobby," he says. "It's Sam."

"Sam. How you're holding up, kid?" Bobby asks. Sam shrugs even though he knows Bobby can't see it.

"I don't know," he admits. "I don't think it's really sunken in yet."

"Shit, boy," Bobby grunts. "I'm sorry."

"Thanks, Bobby. Listen, we were wondering if there's any way you can get Dad's car?" Sam asks. "Or if you know anyone you trust that can get it to your place? It's just outside Casper, Wyoming. We'd get it, but I'm tied up at school and Dean's staying with me."

Dean makes a gruff noise, but Sam ignores him. He knows in a few days, Dean will probably be itching to leave, to get back on the road, but Sam is going to fight him tooth and nail on the matter this time. He isn't going to let Dean hunt alone, especially not all messed up like this.

"Sure thing, Sam. You boys just text me the address and I'll figure it out."

"Thanks, Bobby," Sam says, shoulders dropping in relief. "We'll swing by when the semester is over in a few weeks."

"You do that. It'd be good to see you two. It's been too long."

"Yeah, it has," Sam agrees.

"And you take care of your brother, will you?"

Sam turns his head a little, looks at Dean watching him intently. Sam isn't curled around him anymore, but their knees and hips are pressed together. "I will," Sam promises. He ends the phone call and puts it down next to him.

"Bobby's getting Dad's car," he says unnecessarily.

"I heard," Dean replies. "And apparently I'm staying here indefinitely."

"I didn't say indefinitely," Sam argues, but silently thinks yes. If he has anything to do with it, Dean isn't getting back on the road anytime soon. They've lost enough already.

                            *

Come Monday, Sam has to go back to class. His roommate isn't going to be around for the rest of the week, at least. His girlfriend dumped him the week before and some buddies of his talked him into flying to Vegas and drinking his grief away, even if it meant missing class. Sam is pretty sure Marty is going to fail most of his classes, but he doesn't care. Right now, with Dean there, he can't help but feel happy about the fact that they have the apartment to themselves. The last thing he wants right now is having some other person hanging around, whining about the end of his relationship—plus, Dean would probably strangle the guy after a day or two.

Sam texts Dean periodically during the day, telling himself he's just bored and not checking in on Dean. He feels relieved with each text he gets back, because he sounds okay and it's enough to make Sam feel better too. 

Between classes, he gets some studying and reading done and successfully avoids all of his friends. As much as he likes them, and as much as he enjoys actually having real friends for once now that he's lived in a place for more than a couple of months, Sam doesn't feel like talking to them. He wouldn't know how to respond to innocent questions, like 'how are you' and 'how was your weekend'. He hates to admit it, but his friends here barely know anything about his life as it is and he can't imagine talking to them about John, or even Dean. It's too complicated, even with the whole hunting ghosts and monsters thing aside.

He's relieved when he gets back to his apartment in the afternoon. 

Dean is in the kitchen, cooking dinner, and the place smells like delicious pasta sauce. 

"Dude," Sam says, impressed as he peers past Dean's shoulder into the pots. Dean shrugs it off and shoos him away, but Sam can see the little pleased smile on his face. They eat in the living-room, watching TV and drinking beer. Afterward, Sam pulls his books out to study and Dean turns the volume down. 

It becomes their routine and Sam gets used to it over the next few days: the home-cooked meals, the low hum of the TV and Dean's soft laughter as he watches it, the warm, familiar body next to his in bed. The latter should be weird, but Sam has lived most of his life with Dean right there in his personal space and having Dean nearby was always normal, always reassuring. The first few weeks at college, knowing Dean was not in the same city or even state, Sam felt unsettled, constantly tempted to call Dean to at least hear his voice. Sharing a bed might not have been something they usually did, not since they were kids anyway, but it's comforting. 

Which is maybe why Sam feels like he's been suckerpunched when he comes home Friday afternoon to find Dean pouring over a newspaper with a highlighter in his hand. Sam can see a couple of things have been circled in bright orange already.

"What are you doing?" he asks, and his voice sounds alarmed. Dean looks up at him from the couch and frowns.

"Hey Sammy," he says. "You okay?"

Sam drops his backpack and sits down on the couch next to Dean. "What are—" he starts, but skimming the ads Dean has highlighted makes him stop. "What is this?"

Dean shrugs, looking a little sheepish. "Just jobs," he says. "Thought, you know, sooner or later we'll run out of money and I can't exactly hustle pool around here or use fake credit cards."

"So you're looking for a job?" 

"We could use the money, right? Groceries and stuff don't buy themselves."

Sam bites down on his lower lip. "That sounds like you're not planning on leaving anytime soon."

"I was thinking at least till you finish the semester. You're the one insisting I should stay," Dean says and snorts. "I got a feeling you're going to slash my baby's tires and lock me in if I try."

"Please. Like I could stop you if you really wanted to go."

"Well, maybe I don't," Dean admits, his expression softening. It makes Sam's chest ache. Dean has changed since they last saw each other and Sam isn't sure if it's just John's death or if it happened over time, since Sam left. This new version of Dean, the one that gets all quiet and thoughtful sometimes, that looks at Sam with so much vulnerability and gentleness, both terrifies and intrigues him. The Dean Sam is used to is cocky and brash and brave, but Sam has a feeling that the sides of Dean he is seeing now are just as real, and maybe they've been there all along, buried under the facade of a hunter. 

Dean sighs now, putting the newspaper down on the coffee table. "Look, Sammy, hunting is kinda all I know, but I want to stay here for a bit. Who knows, maybe a month from now I'll be itching to get back on the road. But right now, I just… I need a break. And I could use a little company, you know?"

"You know I want you here," Sam says. "For as long as you're willing to stay."

"Just no fighting when I do leave, okay?"

"Only if you promise you won't bitch at me if I do what I can to make you stay," Sam counters, and Dean grins.

"I don't bitch. That's all you, Sammy."

                            *

Sam suggests that they go out that night and though Dean agrees easily, he's not nearly as enthusiastic about it as he used to be.

There's a small pub within walking distance of Sam's place that's popular among students. Most of them like it because it's not too far from campus and the drinks are cheap. Sam likes it because it's dark and dingy and reminds him of the kind of bars Dean snuck him into when he was younger. They're playing classic rock, and there are a couple of pool tables and a dart board. 

"Nice," Dean says and nods in approval. 

"Let's grab a table and have a couple of drinks. _Then_ you can beat my ass at pool," Sam suggests and makes his way to the bar without waiting for Dean.

Dean follows him and his body brushes Sam's side as he leans against the bar. "So, you admit I'm better?"

"Maybe I was just saying I intend to let you win," Sam counters, but they both know it's not true. Dean is the kind of person who is scarily good at things when he puts his mind to it, and pool has always been one of those things. Sam only ever beat him when Dean was taking it easy on him, or when he wanted to show Sam new tricks rather than compete with him. 

Sam orders two beers and shots before they go find a small table in a dark corner of the bar. They sit across from each other and Sam raises his shot glass, taking a deep breath. "To Dad," he toasts, and Dean meets his eyes, face solemn.

"To Dad," he repeats. Under the table, he presses his ankle against Sam's and Sam gives him a small smile before they knock the shots back. Tequila burns down his throat and he makes a face, wishing he had a lemon to chase it with except he knows Dean would mock him for it. He picks up his beer instead and takes a healthy swig.

"So, this is where you hang out, huh?" Dean asks, waving his hand around lazily.

"Sometimes," Sam says. "I like it here. There are some other places my friends like, but we come here from time to time."

"Friends," Dean repeats. "You haven't really mentioned anyone since I got here. Other than your roommate."

Sam shrugs. "Haven't exactly been in the mood to hang out with people. You know."

Dean hums and nods. "Got a girlfriend?"

"No," Sam says, and barely suppresses squirming in his seat in face of Dean's sudden interest in Sam's personal life. 

"Monk Sammy," Dean teases and Sam huffs.

"I'm not a monk, asshole. I've dated. There's nobody right now, is all," he elaborates. Truth is, Sam hasn't been getting out much. He knows there are one or two girls in his extended group of friends that would be interested in going out with him, maybe a guy too, but nothing has felt right. He's been on a few dates in the last couple of years, had something that resembled a relationship for a few months his freshman year, but it's tough. Nobody here knows who he really is, the life he's led, and Sam can't imagine a relationship with one person hiding so many things, keeping so many secrets.

"Monk," Dean repeats.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Well, we can't all whore ourselves around like you do. Got a girl in every town you've ever been in, right?"

Dean grins and takes a long pull from his beer. When he puts the bottle down, his face is suddenly more serious, hesitant. "Dad walked in on me and this guy a few months ago," he says, and scratches his thumbnail over the label on the bottle before chuckling darkly.

The words take Sam completely by surprise. It's nothing they've ever talked about, nothing that fit with the hunter image Dean had, but once or twice Sam had had his suspicions, had thought he'd seen Dean check out a guy. "Bet he wasn't happy about that," Sam settles on, keeping his voice soft.

Dean snorts. "Not exactly. Could have been worse though. He kinda pretended nothing ever happened the next day and I wasn't stupid enough to bring it up."

"You know I don't care, right?"

"Yeah," Dean says, nodding. "I kinda guessed you wouldn't."

Sam offers him a smile and knocks his foot against Dean's. "I'm gonna get us more shots."

"Since when are you a heavy drinker, Sammy?"

"I'm not," Sam says. "But I think it's _that_ kinda night."

                            *

Sam is pleasantly buzzed, the tension and stress of the last few days starting to drain a little. He's in the middle of telling Dean a story about one of his professors from last semester, who Sam is convinced hated him, when he hears his name being called.

He looks up and a girl from one of his law classes is sauntering over, a grin on her face. "Sam! I thought that was you!"

"Hey, Lauren," Sam greets, though he feels annoyed by her interruption. He's not in the mood to talk to other people, to share his time with Dean. Lauren is nice enough, though, and Sam gives her a polite smile.

Lauren places a hand on his arm as soon as she's close enough and smiles widely back at him. "It's such a nice surprise, running into you! How are you?"

"Fine," Sam mumbles. 

Lauren glances at Dean, smiles at him too, and nods at the bar. "I'm here with some friends. You should come join us. We're having some drinks and then hitting the clubs later," she says, looking hopeful. Under the table, Dean kicks him lightly.

"Uh, thanks for the offer. But," Sam starts and waves his hand awkwardly at Dean. "We're kinda, you know, hanging out. The two of us."

"Oh," Lauren says and looks at Dean more closely now. " _Oh_."

Sam knows what she must be thinking, but instead of correcting her he gives her an apologetic smile. "Yeah, sorry. But you and your friends have a good night, Lauren."

"Sure," she replies, sounding a little stilted now. "See you in class, Sam."

"Yeah. Bye," Sam says as Lauren turns, and Dean echoes his words, but he's looking at Sam with raised eyebrows.

"You do know she thinks we're banging each other now?" he says once Lauren is back at the bar, and Sam shrugs, waiting for Dean to mock him. Dean is still staring at him, challenging.

"She's probably going to tell people."

"Tell them what? That I'm dating a hot guy?" Sam asks. "Worse things could happen to my reputation."

Dean grins. "I'm hot, huh?"

"Shut up," Sam mumbles. Dean laughs, but a moment later he picks up his beer and knocks the neck of the bottle against Sam's.

"Well, you're not so bad yourself, Sammy," Dean says. "You know, for a long-haired, nerdy freak."

"Gee, thanks," Sam shoots back, but he's smiling wider than he has in days.

                            *

When Sam wakes up the next morning, rain is drumming loudly against the windows and wind his howling around the house. The blinds aren't fully closed and the sky is a threatening shade of gray-blue. 

Sam hitches the sheets a little higher. Dean is sleeping on his side, back to Sam, and Sam shuffles closer. For a moment, he hesitates, before he presses his body against Dean's and wraps his arm around Dean's waist. 

"Dude," Dean mutters sleepily, but there's no heat in the word. Sam nuzzles Dean's neck softly, then a little more when Dean doesn't pull away. He smells like the bar and traces of the cologne he uses. 

"Sammy," Dean mumbles and twists around in Sam's embrace. His head rests on the pillow dangerously close to Sam's, only a couple of inches between them. "What are you doing?"

"Just," Sam starts and sighs. He leans in close and brushes his lips against Dean's. It's brief, just an experimental touch and he pulls away after a couple of seconds, looking at Dean for his reaction.

The look on Dean's face is nothing he's ever seen before. It's soft and vulnerable, sad. Sam kisses him again, just to get that look off his face, to give Dean something that, maybe, they've both been wanting for a while. Something they both need, now more than ever.

Dean makes a quiet noise against his mouth, but he parts his lips for Sam and kisses him back. It's something Sam used to think about; when he saw Dean with girls he used to wonder what it would be like to have Dean's arm around him, to flirt and kiss and touch him. He wondered if Dean kissed his dates all sweet and slow or harder, deep and if Dean's lips felt as soft as they looked. He made himself stop eventually, made himself look at other people instead of Dean, but he never quite let go. Every date Sam's been on, every time he got intimate with someone, thoughts of Dean would filter in.

Now, Sam moves his lips against Dean's slowly, licks into his mouth, coaxes and teases at Dean's lips until he can feel Dean give in and take charge. He hums happily when Dean cups his jaw, changes the angle a little, and slides his tongue against Sam's in a way that's both incredibly dirty and gentle at the same time.

                            *

"This is all kinds of wrong," Dean says later. They're still in bed and Dean's lips are bruised and red from kissing. Sam rubs his thumb over Dean's hip, studying Dean's expression.

"But?" he prompts, because he knows Dean and nothing about him screams disgust or rejection.

Dean sighs. "When you left, remember how you asked me to come with you?"

"Yes," Sam says, and just thinking about it still pains him. Dean had flat out rejected the idea that day, hadn't even considered it for a moment.

"I wanted to say yes," Dean says. "There were towns I really wanted to stay in, too, instead of packing my things and going back on the road. Places where I thought, if we stayed, I might actually make friends there, would feel at home. And dammit, Sammy, I wanted more than a fucking GED to my name."

"You could have," Sam interrupts. "You're smart, Dean."  
"Well, education doesn't matter much when you're a hunter," Dean says. "What I'm saying is, there's stuff I wanted, but I'm not like you. You fought tooth and nail for what you wanted, and it didn't always work out, but you tried. I never did that. But this is something that I don't want to let slide like all those other things; fucked up as it is, Sam, I want to be allowed to have this for myself."

"You can," Sam assures him and kisses Dean, dry and chaste. "You already do. It's all yours, Dean."

"Tell me you want this too," Dean says, voice all pleading.

Sam snorts and moves closer, burrowing his face against the dip of Dean's throat. "More than anything," he admits, lips brushing Dean's skin. 

                            *

Sam's roommate comes back on Sunday evening and he's not too happy when Sam tells him he's got someone staying with him for the rest of the semester. It's just a few weeks, way less than the three months Marty's girlfriend lived with them, so Sam doesn't bother making sure he's okay with Dean staying there.

"Just keep it down," Marty mutters and vanishes in his bedroom.

"Nice guy," Dean jokes and Sam rolls his eyes.

"His girlfriend dumped him because he cheated on her. He's kinda been a dick to everyone around him ever since," he explains. "Maybe next year, we could get our own place. So I won't have to deal with awful roommates anymore."

"Maybe," Dean says and Sam feels hopeful.

                            *

Exam season has always been one of the most stressful times of Sam's life—up there with hunting monsters that could kill you. This semester, it feels especially gruesome. Partly, because Sam would rather be spending quality time with Dean than studying, but also because Sam still feels like he's on some kind of emotional rollercoaster.

Sometimes, grief hits him and Sam wants nothing more than to curl up and cry, and other times, lying in bed with Dean or just watching a movie curled up together on the couch, Sam is pretty sure he's never been happier. It's exhausting and confusing, and Sam knows Dean is going through the same thing. 

Dean finds a part time job at a garage and that keeps him busy while Sam is in class, but Sam knows Dean has more down-time than he's used to. He's always been on the road, keeping busy and focusing on the next hunt. Now, there's no monster to distract him, no new place to get to and he gets quiet sometimes, withdraws. Slowly but surely Sam learns when to let Dean be and when to draw him back out.

Nights become Sam's favorite time. They sleep curled up together and there are slow kisses and small touches. They don't progress further for now, and both seem content with that. Sex, Sam guesses, is something they need to build up to, something that is on the back-burner while they heal and figure out where they stand, what they want. What they have, for now, is more than enough for Sam and, oddly enough, it seems to be enough for Dean too.

                            *

Dean buys Sam a bottle of whiskey after he's done with his last exam and they crack it open over pizza and a cheesy horror movie. By the end of the night, they're both a little drunk and Dean's hand is under Sam's shirt, petting his stomach. They fall asleep like that and the next morning they hit the road despite the small headaches they both have.

Being back on the road is strange, yet comfortingly familiar. The roar of the engine, the smell of the car, Dean's favorite music—it's all ingrained so deeply in Sam that it feels like coming home. 

Sam naps, his head resting against the window with a sweater serving as a pillow. Lunch is snacks bought at a gas station washed down with bitter, strong coffee, and dinner is greasy burgers at a diner close to the motel they stay in for the night. Sam drives for a while the second day and talks Dean into stopping for one more night instead of pushing through to Sioux Falls. 

They finally get to Bobby's salvage yard late the next morning and Bobby greets them with rough hugs and pats on the backs. 

"It's been too long," Bobby says while ushering them inside, Rumsfield sniffing their heels. 

"Yeah," Sam finds himself agreeing, and he means it. For all the things he hated about their lives, all the differences he had with John, it's only now that he realizes how much he missed all of this. 

                            *

John's truck is parked next to a rusting old Volkswagen. Sam touches the hood, hand smudging a few weeks worth of dust and dirt.

"What're we going to do with it?" he asks.

Dean comes to stand next to him, his face drawn. "Let's just clean it out for now, take out the stuff we should keep."

Sam nods and touches Dean's arm briefly. "Wanna take the weapon compartment and I'll take the front?" he suggests. Dean nods, so Sam spends the next hour cleaning out the glove compartment, checking under the seats and floor-mats, and emptying the compartments in the doors. There isn't much, except for the journal in the glove-box and one of John's guns, but the rest is mostly random junk that can be tossed away.

He joins Dean at the back of the truck, the journal gripped in his hand. Dean has made two piles on the bed of the truck, weapons and supplies piled high.

"I'm done," Sam says, and holds up the leather-bound book. "Found this, but not much else. Dad's gun, some random odds and ends."

Dean nods. "I'm sorting things into stuff I can add to the Impala's weapon compartment, and everything else. Figured the trunk is already full enough as it is, so we might as well store the rest."

"For when you go back to hunting?" Sam asks softly, and Dean sighs.

"I don't know, Sammy," he replies and gives Sam a beseeching look. "Just, you know, being practical. Who knows what'll happen."  
Sam nods. "Okay," he accepts. "I'll hit the can and get us something to drink, and then I'll help with the rest of this stuff."

He brushes against Dean as he leaves, just a small contact. Inside the house, it's a lot cooler, and Sam puts the diary and gun into the bedroom he's sharing with Dean first. Bobby is reading in the living-room, a phone pressed to his ear, and Sam doesn't bother interrupting him. He gets two beers and a bottle of water from the kitchen and joins Dean back outside. 

Dean reaches for one of the beers, but Sam shakes his head and holds out the water. "Drink half of this, and I'll give you a beer," he says, and Dean looks displeased.

"Sam," he says, tone low and warning.

"It's damn hot out here and you've been out in the sun for over an hour," Sam replies. "Water first."

Dean heaves a loud sigh, but he grabs the water bottle and downs half of it. "Happy?" he asks as he wipes his mouth with the back of his arm. There's a bit of gun oil smeared on his cheek and small beads of sweat are glistening on his temples. He looks like a guy in some freaking commercial—Sam isn't sure for what, but he'd buy anything Dean would be trying to sell him looking like that. 

"Ecstatic," he says, biting back any other comment. He nudges Dean with his hip, hands him a beer, and takes the water to finish it. 

There are only a few more things in the truck and they're sorted quickly. 

"So, wanna see if we can store what we don't need with Bobby for now?" Sam asks when they're done.

Dean shuts the weapon compartment and gets up onto the bed of the truck. "In a minute," he says, and steps over the piles he's made. "Come up here, Sammy."  
He sits down, back against the cabin, and pats the space next to him. Sam swings himself up, beer clutched in one hand, and joins Dean. The metal is hot from the sun, uncomfortable, and Sam presses the cold bottle against his jaw.

"It's weird, huh?" Dean says softly, nudging a knife with the tip of his foot. "Having dad's stuff spread out like that. Final."

Sam sniffs. "Yeah."

"Did you want to go to Casper? See where, you know," Dean trails off.

Sam thinks about that for a moment, but he shakes his head. "Maybe someday, but no. Not really."

Dean nods and takes a drag from his own beer. "There's nothing much to see there, anyway."

"Yeah," Sam agrees. 

Dean gives him a tight smile and cups Sam's neck with one hand, pulling him close enough to brush their lips together in a short kiss. 

                            *

There's a bed and a cot in the room they sleep in at Bobby's. It's the same room they used when they were younger, half guest-room and half storage room. 

The cot stays empty that night, even though the bed barely fits the both of them. 

                            *

They stay with Bobby for two more days. Sam uses the time to read some of Bobby's countless books, skimming over lore and legends. Dean tinkers around some cars, fixing what he can.

It's nice, but Sam is glad when they're back on the road again. At Bobby's, there was always the underlying worry that he would walk in on them sleeping in one bed. In Palo Alto, everyone kind of assumes Dean is his boyfriend, from his roommate, to his friends, to the sweet, elderly woman who runs the small grocery store down the road.

Sam likes it that way. They're not very physical with each other when they're not alone, but Sam likes not having to worry about how they come across, or if his hand on Dean's back looks platonic or not.

"You're in a good mood," Dean remarks as they hit the highway.

"I am," Sam agrees and Dean smiles. He reaches across the console and brushes his fingers over Sam's for a moment, before bringing his hand back to the wheel.

                            *

They don't bother with a motel that night. It's been a hot, sweltering day, and by the time Dean parks the Impala by a small lake late that afternoon, there are no signs of things cooling off.

The air feels muggy, clinging to Sam's skin and making his t-shirt stick to his body with moisture and his own sweat. 

The highway has been pretty much deserted for the past couple of hours, but they made sure to find a place far off it anyway, just next to a little dirt road, closed off by thick, green bushes and high trees. They're completely alone here, the seclusion of the place giving them a sense of privacy, yet utter freedom. And Sam feels a nervous sense of anticipation. Here, it's really just the two of them, and it makes excitement coil in his belly, nerves flutter in his chest.

Sam stretches as he gets out of the car, making a face when he smells himself. "I stink."  
Dean gives him a crinkled smile. "Wasn't gonna say anything, but yeah, you kinda do," he says. 

"You don't smell like sunshine and roses either," Sam replies, even though Dean does, in fact, smell way better than Sam does. He's always been sweatier. Dean makes up for it by being a bit more of a slob, not caring about wearing the same shirt three days in a row and only doing laundry when he absolutely has to. Sam can't remember how often they've bickered about that, how many times Sam gave in and did the laundry with a huff even if it was Dean's turn to do it.

"I smell manly," Dean replies, smirking a little. 

Sam rolls his eyes, but he smiles. Slowly but surely, he can tell Dean is improving. He's a little happier again, cocky confidence starting to return, yet he hasn't put any of his walls back up around Sam. More willing to share his thoughts and feelings than before, to let Sam in close. 

Sam likes this version of his brother, likes how much closer he feels to him. As close as they've always been, they used to fight and squabble a lot more before Sam left for Stanford, finding ways to push each other's buttons. Now, when Dean teases Sam he does so with fondness and Sam has stopped feeling the need to push back quite so much, to prove himself.

"Well, if you wanna share a sleeping bag with me tonight, you better join me in there," Sam says, pointing his thumb in the direction of the lake before pulling his shirt up by the hem of it, "and wash that manly smell of yours off."  
He pulls the t-shirt off, drops it to the ground carelessly—it needs to be washed anyway—and then reaches for the button of his jeans.

"You make a convincing case, Sammy," Dean says, eyes running down Sam's chest, stopping at his hands.

Sam flushes a little, feels the heat shoot through him, but doesn't pause in his quest to strip out of his clothes. Dean follows suit, and Sam can't help sneaking a few glances. 

He finishes first and forces himself not to just keep staring at Dean, heading for the water instead. It's blessedly cold, making him suck in a breath as he wades further into it, until the water laps up against his skin mid-thigh.

He cups his hands and splashes some water up against his chest, just to get used to it, and listens to the splashing sounds of Dean following him. 

"Shit, 's colder than I thought," Dean says.

"Feels good though, right?" Sam asks and cranes his head back a little. Dean is no more than a foot behind him, his cock half-hard and heavy, his tan, freckled skin gleaming in the sun with the thin film of sweat.

Sam takes a deep breath and propels himself forward, submerging himself under the water up to his neck. With a few, powerful strokes he puts some more distance between him and Dean again. 

When he's deep enough in the water, he dives fully under, and only when his lungs start to burn does he push up towards the surface again. He comes up with a sputter, grinning and shaking his head so his wet hair flies out. "Fuck, I needed this," he calls out.

Dean is watching him with a smile, still rooted where Sam left him. 

Sam treads water and waves Dean to him. "Come on," he says. He stays where he is, waits, as Dean takes a few more steps before diving into the water. He takes his time, swimming to where Sam is with lazy strokes, not stopping until he's right in front of him.

"Hey," Sam murmurs, smiling.

Dean returns it and frames Sam's face with wet, slightly cool hands. "Hey," he replies and kisses Sam.

The water makes the kiss slick, almost slippery, and Sam can taste the cinnamon chewing gum on Dean's lips that he'd bought at the store they stopped at earlier that day. Sam hums into it happily, letting his own hands settle on Dean's waist, just under his ribcage. 

At the store, Dean picked up a bottle of lube and a box of condoms too. They hadn't addressed it, he'd just met Sam's eyes for a moment and whatever he found there was apparently enough, because he'd dropped both into the shopping cart and given Sam a small smile.

The timing feels right, finally. The two of them on the road together, not another soul anywhere nearby, and Sam wants it with a fever that he's never felt before. Craves it, suddenly, and he's sure he doesn't want to wait another night for this. He wants to feel Dean everywhere, all over him, inside of him.

                            *

"Have you ever done this with another guy?" Dean asks later, sprawled out on their sleeping bags together. They've piled them on top of each other, picking a grassy piece of ground next to the Impala to set up their little camp for the night, making it as comfortable as possible.

They didn't bother getting dressed again, just let the late afternoon sun dry their skin. Sam isn't a shy person, but he's never been as comfortable in his own skin as Dean. However, he's enjoyed the past couple of hours just being like this with Dean, getting to look at him unabashedly and feeling Dean's eyes on him return. He can't imagine doing this with anyone else, feeling comfortable and safe enough with another person to allow himself to be this vulnerable.

The air had become thicker and thicker with tension, the build-up so tantalizing and different, feeling like a drawn-out foreplay that ramped Sam up more than any kiss, any touch ever had before. 

He'd barely been able to eat any of the dinner they'd bought, but he'd accepted the beer Dean had handed him and finished it, glad for the way it had relaxed him a little.

Now, lying next to Dean, Dean's hand smoothing down Sam's side all the way down to his hips, their mouths slick and red from kissing, Sam is so hard he's aching with it.

He shakes his head. "I wanted to."  
"But?" Dean asks and nuzzles Sam's neck, kisses the hinge of Sam's jaw.

"Every guy I was attracted to reminded me way too much of you," Sam admits quietly. Dean draws back, places a kiss to the corner of Sam's mouth. "And I didn't want to settle for someone who was just a substitute for you, when I really wanted the real thing."  
Dean smiles, pushes strands of hair out of Sam's face in a gesture that's sweet, tucking them behind Sam's ear. "You have me now," he says. 

"The guys you were with, were they..." Sam doesn't finish the sentence, let's it hang between them.

Dean's smile gets softer. "They were the exact opposite of you, Sammy. Every single one of them," he murmurs. "I wouldn't have been able to find a replacement for you anyway."

"Good," Sam murmurs, and curls his hand around the top of Dean's shoulder, tugging him in to bring their lips together. Dean's mouth is hot, tongue swiping out, licking at Sam's lips until he parts them under Dean's. 

He lets himself be nudged onto his back, moans and wraps his arms around Dean as Dean settles down on top of him, slotting perfectly between Sam's splayed thighs.

                            *

It's everything and nothing like Sam imagined it would be.

Dean is gentler than Sam anticipated, yet it's rougher than sex with a girl has ever been. The skin of Dean's chin and cheeks isn't smooth as he licks and kisses a path down Sam's body, stubble scraping against Sam's skin. The weight of his body on top of Sam's is heavy, pinning him down. Dean's hands are calloused, his touch feels different, more intense. And there's the firm, insistent press of his dick against Sam's hip, his thigh, that is both intimidating and exhilarating. 

Sam likes it. The way Dean controls him so easily, the way he takes charge. He likes how the words Dean murmurs into his ear are the kind of words Sam has said in the past but never been at the receiving end of. How nice he feels, how good he's looking spread out for Dean.

He shudders when Dean kisses the shell of his ear and whispers, "I'll make it good for you, baby boy. Promise. You'll feel amazing," as he grabs the lube from next to them.

Sam is used to sinking into the tight, wet heat of a girl. He's always tried to be good, to appreciate the girls he was with, to be conscious of their needs and feelings instead of just his own. But it's not until Dean nudges a slick finger between his cheeks that Sam truly gets it—how meaningful it can be to let another person inside his body, how vulnerable and scary, and yet so wonderful to do this with Dean, to let _Dean_ in. 

His breath hitches when Dean rubs the pad of his finger over Sam's hole, sucking on a spot on the inside of Sam's thigh as he slowly starts pressing in. Sam has never done this, not even by himself, and he feels his body try to fight the intrusion, to clench up, and then Dean pushes past the resistance and sinks into him. 

Sam let's out a quiet, helpless moan.

"That's it, Sammy," Dean murmurs. His breath ghosts over Sam's balls, the base of his dick, making Sam shiver, because Dean's face is right down there, watching as he opens Sam up, and it feels dirty in the most amazing way possible. 

It's just one finger, but to Sam it feels like everything he thought he knew, thought he liked, has been nixed, his world tipped upside down. Dean is inside of him. And as much as Sam knew this was coming, it didn't prepare him for how overwhelming it would feel. How amazing.

It burns and feels strange, but when Dean's finger finds Sam's prostate for the first time, the spark of pleasure is unlike anything Sam has ever felt before and he knows, suddenly, he'll be craving this for the rest of his life. The slight pain, the way it mingles with pleasure, the fullness he feels as Dean slides another finger into him, and then a third, only adds to it, makes Sam forget anything but this, the feeling of having Dean inside of him.

There's something so intimate about it, having Dean opening his body up with his fingers. Pressing and coaxing, soothing Sam with kisses and soft words as he prepares him, gets him all slick and loose until Sam is rocking down onto his fingers helplessly, chasing an orgasm that is just out of reach. 

"Think you're ready?" Dean asks, kissing Sam's hip, his belly, before sitting back between Sam's legs. He sounds calm, but Sam can see a wildness in his eyes, his cheeks a little flushed, and it just spurs Sam on. Knowing Dean wants this just as much, is just as affected.

Sam nods, fervently, and makes a noise when Dean pulls his fingers out of him, leaving him feeling empty. Wrong. He already knows he will never get tired of this; that he'll be craving this every goddamn day of his life. Craving Dean; his mouth, his hands, his cock. 

Body aching with the need for Dean, want pulsing through him, Sam watches as Dean grabs the box of condoms. He wants to ask Dean not to use one, wishes he would just slide into him bare, letting Sam feel everything, but he knows Dean wouldn't do it. Not yet. Not before taking all the necessary steps— _never, ever do it without a condom_ , those are words Dean hammered into Sam over and over again. And until now, Sam never wanted to, was never tempted by the idea even when he knew the girl he was with was on the pill. 

With Dean, though, even the thin layer of the latex seems like too much, like a barrier Sam doesn't want. Someday, he thinks, in a few months maybe.

"On your hands and knees will be easier for you," Dean says, ripping the foil packet open. The slight tremble in his fingers, the way he tears at the packet, belies how calm he is and it makes Sam smile a little.

"Sam?" Dean prompts. "Turn around for me, baby boy."

But that is one thing Sam isn't willing to compromise on, to not ask for, so he shakes his head determinedly. "Like this," he says.

Dean looks at him for a moment, but then he nods. He rolls the condom down his hard, flushed cock, and Sam waits until he's slicked himself up with lube before he raises his legs around Dean's waist.

Dean leans over him, grabs the back of Sam's thigh with one hand, while he guides himself in with the other. The head of his cock presses against Sam's entrance, feeling much thicker than his fingers did.

"Fuck," Dean hisses, and Sam hears him taking in a shuddered breath.

"Dean."

"Breathe, okay?" Dean murmurs, sounding a little choked. "Just try to relax."

Sam gives a nod that's a little shaky, but the nervousness he feels is more anticipatory than anything else. Dean shifts, presses forward, and for a split second Sam thinks maybe he won't fit, seems it's impossible to work something so big into something so small. But then Dean pushes past the first ring of muscles, the head of his cock sliding into Sam, and Sam feels like all the air is being punched out of him.

It hurts, but Sam expected that. He's felt pain a lot worse than this, and it's a different kind of pain, too. It's a dull ache inside of Sam that isn't entirely unpleasant, that, once the initial burn fades, makes a fire crawl through his veins.

Dean sinks in a little deeper, and then deeper still. Leaning over Sam, he's staring down at him with eyes that look so dark they almost seem black in the rapidly fading daylight. His mouth is parted, his breathing heavy, and he's slowly but surely filling Sam up, pushing in inch by incredible inch.

It seems to drag on forever yet be over in seconds, before he stops, pressed up flush against Sam's ass, the position bending Sam in half. Dean is inside of him, filling what feels like every last space inside of Sam's body.

"Okay?" Dean asks, his voice strained. 

Sam isn't even sure what to say for a moment. He wonders what it feels like for him, if he feels like a girl or if it's different. If he's tighter, because it feels like it, muscles stretched around Dean, gripping him. He feels himself throbbing around Dean with the ache of it, his muscles clenching and unclenching as if he's trying to force Dean out again, when all Sam really wants is to keep him there forever.

"Yeah," he finally replies. Dean exhales then, loud and long, and dips down, mashing their mouths together in a hard kiss. 

His hands are curled around one thigh each when he starts moving, gripping Sam tightly. He shifts almost experimentally at first, just a bit, but to Sam it feels like the movement is taking him apart from the inside out. The barest bit of friction making everything narrow down to the place where they're connected, to the feel of Dean's thick, hard cock lodged inside of him. Sam feels incredibly full and somehow that makes it better.

Dean rocks his hips, slide out and back in a little, a moan falling from his mouth. His cock rubs against Sam's prostate and the spark of pleasure makes Sam gasp, body seizing up for a moment.

"Feels good?" Dean murmurs, and when Sam nods, his thrusts get a little bolder, a little broader. 

"Yeah. Yeah, Dean, it's good," Sam says, and good feels like a completely inadequate word for how Sam feels right then. How monumental it feels, each slide of Dean inside of him tilting his world at its axis, sending sparks through Sam.

Sam likes to think he's had sex that's been pretty damn good before, but never—even with the discomfort and pain he's feeling—has sex felt this right before. And the more he relaxes into it, the more he feels his body respond. The small moans that spill from his lips get louder, needier, until they turn into quiet, breathless cries, his body arching and squirming under Dean's. 

Dean has settled on a rhythm now, slower than Sam expected, but hard enough to make him slide a little further up on their sleeping bags with each of Dean's thrusts, the material bunching up under him. Dean is panting, little groans and grunts mixing with Sam's noises, and Sam grips his shoulders tightly, holding on to him as Dean fucks into him over and over, pushing him closer and closer to orgasming. 

"Sam," Dean mumbles after a particularly sharp twist of his hips, making Sam cry out. "Fuck, Sammy, you feel amazing. So amazing for me, baby boy."

The words make a different kind of warmth settle in Sam's stomach, make his breath stutter. "Dean," Sam moans, and prays Dean hears his awe, his adoration. 

Letting go of Dean with one hand, he worms it between their bodies, curling it around his cock. He knows he's close, can feel the way his balls are drawing up, his stomach feeling tight, and the dry friction of his own hand sends him over the edge after a handful of hard strokes, choking out Dean's name.

Dean's lips on his, crashing together in a dirty, wet kiss, muffle the rest of his noises as Dean keeps thrusting into him. It sends more waves of pleasure through Sam, the way Dean keeps nailing his prostate, the stimulation almost overwhelming, making Sam tremble as aftershocks wrack his body.

Dean grunts into his mouth and then breaks the kiss, and he slows down, stops, before collapsing on top of Sam. Sam feels dizzy with it, the intensity of his orgasm, the enormity of what they just did, and he wraps his arms around Dean and holds onto him tightly, burying his face in the crook of Dean's neck.

                            *

When their breathing has returned to normal, the trembling in their muscles has ceased, and the night air has dried the sweat on their skin, now feeling chilly against their overheated bodies, they untangle. 

"Let's clean up," Dean suggests and pulls Sam onto his feet with him. There's an ache deep in Sam's backside that makes him blush, heats up his insides, as they walk to the edge of the lake. 

The water feels colder now that the sun has set and the temperature has dropped, and they only wade in until they're almost up to their waists.

"Shit," Sam says, shivering a little as he quickly washes away the traces of come and sweat and lube as best as he can. 

"Yeah," Dean agrees with a small laugh, happiness thick in his voice. He hustles Sam back out of the water after a few moments and they grab towels this time, making sure they're both as dry as they'll get before pulling on underwear.

Dean makes Sam hold a flashlight as he pours a ring of salt around their sleeping bags and the car and then returns the favor as Sam traces sigils for protection into the ground. Only when Sam is done do they crawl back onto the sleeping bags and Dean pulls a slightly scratchy blanket they keep in the trunk over both of them.

Curling up against Dean, soaking in the warmth of his body and the comfort of his proximity, Sam says quietly, "How about we don't head back to Palo Alto just yet? Just until the next semester starts."

"You wanna hunt?" Dean asks, sounding surprised.

"No. Maybe later. I don't know," Sam murmurs and slides his leg between Dean's. He smiles when Dean's arms come around him, pulling him in close against Dean's body, and Dean worms one of his hands under the waistband of Sam's boxer-briefs. "We could roadtrip for a while. Just go where we feel like."

"I need to find a new job," Dean says. 

"You can do that later," Sam replies. "We can make some money on the road. I haven't forgotten how it works, Dean."  
He never really liked it much, the credit card scams and hustling people at pool and cards. But he was good at it, just like Dean, and right now he'd rather be doing that than heading back. Classes don't start for a while, and Sam misses the open stretch of the road, the Impala's engine rumbling under them, the smell of gun oil and fuel and leather, a combination that always made him think of Dean. Of home.

"Thought you'd be eager to get back home," Dean admits and his fingers skim over the sensitive skin of Sam's ass, the touch feeling oddly innocent.

"It'll be like a vacation. Lots of college kids do it between semesters," Sam says. "And it'll be just you and me. I think that'd be nice—for both of us."

"Yeah. Okay, yeah," Dean says. "I'd really like that."

Sam smiles and kisses Dean's collarbone. "You know I love you. Right, Dean?" he asks, and holds his breath.

Dean is silent for a moment, and then he kisses Sam's temple. "Yeah, Sammy. I know," he says and then more quietly, voice rougher, he adds, "I love you, too."

                            *

**Two years later**

Sam knows something is wrong and he starts walking faster, until he's jogging. He can hear the blare of sirens from a few blocks away, smell the stench of fire in the air.

He isn't sure he's still breathing, something tight and painful gripping his chest, as he rounds the corner. The flames are bright orange, licking high up the building, the fire engulfing the top three floors of the five-story building. Their apartment is on the fourth floor.

"No," Sam chokes out and breaks out into a run. 

"Dean!" he yells, pushing past the people that have gathered on the street, watching. "Dean!"

The sirens are blocking out the sound of his scream, and Sam can't get air into his lungs. He can't breathe. He needs Dean. 

He makes it to the cordon, and his eyes are drawn to where he knows their apartment is, while his mind tries to map out the best place to slip past the barrier, to get inside.

Everything stops when he sees something, a dark figure standing in their window, flames all around him. And then it vanishes, in the blink of an eyes.

"No. No, no, no," Sam mumbles. It can't be real, can't be happening. But Sam knows—he's seen this in his dreams, felt the heat of the fire and the sound of screams, felt it then as he feels it now, that crippling, all-consuming sense of loss and pain, because Dean is in there. 

Sam is trembling all over, and it feels like he's dying too, right there, on the sidewalk. "Dean," he yells out on top of his lungs.

"Sam." 

Sam whirls around just as a hand clamps down on his shoulder. Dean is there, eyes a little wide, skin looking warm and golden in the light of the fire.

"Sammy," Dean says, and he drags Sam close, pulls him into a rough hug that's too tight and yet not tight enough.

"Dean," Sam mumbles. "Oh god, Dean."

"I'm here. I'm okay," Dean says, and Sam wraps his arms around him as tightly as he can. "I'm right here, baby boy."

*

The TV is on mute, images of the fire playing out on screen. They've listened to the news, the same information being retold over and over again in a loop. 

Dean kneels on the mattress beside Sam, pulls him against him and pushing both of them down onto the mattress. The sheets crinkle under them, stiff and smelling a little musty. Sam closes his eyes and turns his body into Dean's, pressing his face into the curve of his neck.

No names have been released yet, but at least three people have been confirmed dead. Sam wonders who it is. The elderly couple living down the hall from them, or the three girls living one floor up that like to throw parties almost every Friday. The guy that Sam sometimes runs into the stairwell that almost smells like pot. Maybe the single mother with the baby, though Sam feels a sense of relief when he remembers she lives on the second floor. The one that the fire hadn't reached yet when Sam got home.

His breath hitches a little and he presses closer to Dean, as close as he can. "Dean," he mumbles into his skin.

"What is it, Sammy."

Sam takes a deep breath. "I saw something," he whispers. "Someone. In our apartment."

"Sam, that can't—"

"I don't think they were human," Sam interjects, cutting Dean off. He tips his head back, meets Dean's eyes. His own feel gritty, burning from the tears that haven't yet spilled over. "They were standing in the window, Dean, right in the fire. And then they just vanished into thin air."

"You think," Dean starts and stops.

"Maybe," Sam admits, knows what Dean wants to say. If it's the same thing that killed their mother, the thing they were hunting ever since. "I think, maybe, we need to find out."

"Sammy, no. We can call Bobby. Someone else can look into it," Dean starts, and Sam aches because he knows part of Dean has been yearning to get back on the road. But he hasn't, has stayed for Sam, and he's still trying to stay for him now, too. 

Sam licks his dry lips and swallows past the lump in his throat, steeling himself for the words he's been dreading to say. 

Taking a breath, he looks at Dean and says, "I've been having these dreams, Dean."


End file.
